FOOD FOR THOUGHT
by Turretwithaview
Summary: Some Caskett moments built around food. The idea's been sitting in my computer for some time. I hope you think its worth licking your lips over ...
1. Chapter 1

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

Chapter 1 – Strawberries and Cream

He stares in fascination, transfixed at the bottom of the stairs, unable to get his lungs working properly. The devil in is his kitchen, a teasing, evil, playful, mocking devil. The devil is wearing Prada … he knows it, because he can see the red strip running up towards the elegant neck. He knows that shirt, he knows that red strip with the word Prada running along its length, he knows it has more than the three buttons currently keeping it together. He knows that neck, long and taut and elegant, watches as the Adam's apple bobs on the swallow, gaze sweeping downwards to where swelling skin disappears under white cotton.

His eyes flicker up to _those_ eyes, tawny-green and teasing, sucking his very soul out of every pore he possesses, draining him of movement, sapping his will to do anything but stare. His eyes are drawn to the hand, long and elegant and graceful, watches as those slim, playful fingers salaciously select a berry, red and full and juicy, watches as the red succulent fruit rises slowly to meet equally succulent lips. Watches them part, allowing him a quick glimpse of white teeth, watches as those sensational lips softly curve around the shape, hears the crisp slicing of teeth through the very core, stares as the lips slide smoothly over the incision, hears the ever so slight, totally scandalous, sucking of juices.

Watches as those enigmatic lips curve in a taunting smile, helplessly follows the half-bitten fruit as it travels downwards, delicately held between nimble fingers, watches as its dipped in a bowl of cream. Glazed eyes follow it back upwards, past the white of the shirt, past the red of the neckline, past the gilded skin, all the way back to moist, pouting lips. Then the tongue emerges, slowly, pink and hesitating, it hovers, seems to falter, then swipes at the cream, cleaving some away, it slowly retreats, past half-open lips, leaving a small trail where it brushes the upper one, disappears and the lips close over it. A moment later the tongue emerges once more, but only for a second or two, slowly sweeping from dimpled corner to cupid's bow before once again disappearing.

Lips part and close around cream-encrusted berry, and his glazed eyes watch as it slowly emerges, creamless, bright scarlet against pink fingernails, pink core against scarlet lips, watches as their playful curve increases, watches as fingers and half-eaten fruit rise above the face, watches as the face turns upwards, lips part in anticipation and the berry is lowered into waiting mouth.

Slowly the head turns back to face him, the slow working of jaws creating subtle ripples of muscles down the long, graceful neck. Fingers move down and out, little green stem held delicately, then they open, ever so slightly and the emerald stalk twists and rotates in a downward spiral till it hits the counter … it lies there, immobile, discarded.

Movement draws his eyes upwards once more, fingers delicately roll, discard, then select a second berry. The hand rises slowly, moves southwards and his gaze follows. Watches as the hand slows, almost but not quite grazes the shirt-covered hip, moves further down till it reaches the bare skin of elongated thighs. Hand pauses, moves in a circular motion then brings the berry down till it touches skin. The hand moves sulkily, hesitatingly, leaves a glistening trail of moisture along the thigh, a serpentine path which stops just short of the knee. The hand slowly slides upwards again, the new path of moisture curving perilously close to the inner thigh. Then the hand lifts again, dips the imprisoned berry in the cream and unhurriedly holds it out towards him, the hand now making slow, teasing come-hither movements.

He wonders if he's got 911 on speed dial, because right now he thinks he needs a bus … one of those red and white ones with flashing lights and oxygen and fibrillation kits ….


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter 2 – Flour &amp; Pastry_**

He watches from the couch, newspaper held up as a shield, not so much because he needs it … it's more a question of unconnected bones. Yep, his finger bones aren't connected to his arm bones and his arm bones aren't connected to his shoulder bones and his shoulder bones aren't connected to his neck bones and his neck bones aren't connected to his head bone and his head bone is just totally disconnected from his brain.

He's been sitting there for the last ten minutes and the only body parts that seem to be connected at all are his eyeballs. Not that he's too sure what they're connected to, but at least they're moving; the rest of him just seems to have gone catatonic.

Not that he can be blamed he hastily adds to that vague part of his brain he's talking to … well, not sure that talking is an adequate name … _uhhs_! and _wows_! _Oh my gods_! … not sure they can be categorised as talk … more like sounds … disparate and disconnected … he wonders if he's dribbling, but his unconnected bones don't allow his hands to test for an answer.

She's working at the island, hair up in a loose bun, tendrils floating loose and molesting her. Somewhere his brain suggests he should be the one doing the molesting … but 'dem bones are still unconnected, separate entities … movement will have to wait a decade or two. Every now and again she tries to blow them out of the way with that delightful sideways huff she does … though admittedly she's not being very successful.

There are flour stains around her left eyebrow and cheek where she's wiped a hand … it gives his hot detective such a domestic look that he's not sure he hasn't died and gone to heaven … but no, not heaven … there is no way that those moves would get past the pearly gates!

Those moves, yeah … _those_ … should carry a government health warning … not surprising his bones had just disengaged … she's rolling out the pastry, back and forth, back and forth …. which shouldn't be a problem …. except that no bra and an oversized tank top is totally mesmerising.

Unfortunately, his problems don't end there. The top might reach her thighs … but he knows …. he _knows_! He's seen her bend down to get the bowl out of the bottom cupboard … he knows … he couldn't help but notice. Not that he really needed to notice, after all, he'd been the one to make sure they landed on the bedroom floor earlier in the afternoon …. had been the one lying on the bed in satisfied exhaustion when she'd sauntered out to the kitchen with nothing but her smile and the tank top in her hands ….

But that's not the worst of it … not really, it's the soft singing she's doing … that's what's really short-circuited him … he can't help but listen as she reaches the chorus again …

_I still look for your face in the crowd_

_Oh if you could see me now_

_Oh if you could see me now_

_Would you stand in disgrace or take a bow_

_Oh if you could see me now_

_Oh if you could see me now_

… If he could see her now?

Really!? It's about all he _can_ do … and its driving him crazy!


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter 3 – Sausages &amp; Mustard_**

He's trying to concentrate, he is, really! But what the shit … how is he supposed to when she's lying there …. a goddess in Gucci … well ok, not Gucci, just a Rio de Sol mustard-yellow bikini which might have looked great on the shop window dummy but which is currently running a poor second to all that exposed skin.

He knows she's watching him, aware of his furtive glances, he can tell, she's doing that wicked little thing she does with her teeth, biting on her lower lip and trying to keep her mouth from curving upwards. Her eyes … he can't tell about those, the large sunglasses cover the upper part of her face … makes her lip-chewing, smile-hiding, sexy-as-hell mouth misdemeanours all the more noticeable.

He knows she's checking him out, he's aware of the lip chewing getting more intense whenever he bends over to grab a beer can from the iced bucket on the floor or to seize the tongs from the lower shelf. He knows her and spends just that little extra time on choosing the can or carefully replacing the tongs … gives his ass just that little bit of extra stretch, smothers his own grin.

The sausages are sizzling on the grill and his detective is sizzling on the sunbed and he'd better try to keep his mind on the job at hand or they're going to end up with charcoal for lunch. The breeze sweeps in off the ocean and helps to cool his skin … not his thoughts. He turns the sausages, tries to take his mind off the glistening body on the deck behind him, the way the skimpy, water-soaked, yellow material fails to hide shapes and contours that ought to be banned at barbecues, especially when cooking sausages … it takes little imagination to leap from one type of packaged meat to the next, not that these trunks are doing much in the way of packaging … tenting, yes … packaging, no.

He's going to have to take a step back or the ones on the grill aren't the only bangers that are going to get burnt, and yep he's going with that British terminology because he sure as hell thinks it's so apropos right now!

He hears the slight squeak of the sunbed on the deck, hears the padding of feet and then she's entering his peripheral vision, and heading past him to the sliding doors … and there's a definite swaying of hips, an undulating oscillation which makes the minute bikini the perfect frame to the Albertolli of asses, the Beardsley of behinds, the Caravaggio of cabooses, the da Vinci of duffs, the Kandinsky of keisters, the Monet of matakos, the Rembrandt of rears, the Turner of tooshies … fuck the sausages! He's got a more pressing problem to deal with …


	4. Chapter 4

**_Chapter 4 – _****_**_Mushrooms _**and _****_Onions _**

It had been freezing outside and both had been happy to get home for the rest of the day. In fact, as soon as he'd got in he'd whopped up the thermostat to get some heat in the place. That was an hour ago … and he should be making a move to turn it down to a more reasonable setting.

But he's not going to … not unless he gets called out on it! He's just going to sit here and enjoy it for as long as possible. He checks …. hmm … still not looking at him or making a fuss about it. He pops another button on his shirt, pulls the neck aside, lets a bit more air onto his chest.

It had started about fifteen minutes ago; the first onion skin. She was at the island, chopping board before her, heavy-bladed knife in hand. The mushrooms had been quickly dispensed with, caps and stems thinly sliced and scraped into the bowl. Then she'd started on the onion. She'd neatly topped it, peeled away the skin and dropped the discards into the bin. It wasn't the only discard she'd gone for. The sweater had come off and been dropped carelessly over the back of the stool.

He'd watched as the slow moving blade had sliced the onion in half then she'd set aside one half and had started delicately dicing the other. She'd used her hand and the blade to scoop up the diced onion and add it to the mushrooms in the bowl and then she'd picked up the other half of the onion and placed it on the board …. only instead of dicing it, she'd turned to the sink, rinsed and dried her hands and slowly unbuttoned her white shirt, slipping it off her shoulders and laying it over the sweater on the stool.

Now she's wearing the white camisole vest pulled out and over the waist of her jeans, her red four inch pumps clicking smartly on the wooden floor as she steps back around the island. She picks up the knife once more, takes hold of the half-onion on the board and slowly makes the lengthwise incisions before turning it and starting to slice crosswise, the swish and chop of the knife creating its own rhythm in the silence of the loft.

The diced remains are scooped up, added to the mix and she ducks her head sideways at the same time as she pushes her hair off her brow with her forearm. Once again she rinses and dries her hands, moves round the island and slowly pulls the camisole top up over her head before laying it over the shirt.

He's having difficulty in breathing because she's standing there in red, four inch pumps, black skinny jeans and black lacy bra. He's no longer sure it's the loft's heating raising the temperature in the room.

She still hasn't looked his way, still hasn't said anything to him, just the firm click-clack of heels on wood to break the silence. Now she's grabbing the bunch of fresh parsley from the glass it was placed in, lays it on the board and begins the slow, deliberate slice and swish, working her way along from tips to stem.

She sets the knife aside, scoops the parsley up between her hands and sprinkles it over the contents of the bowl. Leaning forward over the island, making him catch his breath, she removes a wooden spoon from the hollow-chef-holder and begins to slowly turn the contents of the bowl over and over in slow, steady moves …. Its mesmerising … he's not sure what is exactly … but something is.

She uses her free hand to sweep a lose strand of hair behind her ear, pauses in the slow mixing and moves back round to the front of the island. Her fingers reach for the front of her waist, he swears he almost hears the button pop, then she's leaning forwards slightly, hands reaching back and sliding the jeans down over her hips, down past her thighs, bending even further as they reach her ankles.

Something tells him he should be breathing … in, out … in, out … in, out … but not only has he forgotten how to do that simple task, the very thought when placed against the slow, sensual movements over by the kitchen island send his mind off into a much different in and out.

She's standing straight once more, left leg bent as she pulls the trouser leg free without even removing her pumps … how the hell does she even manage that?! … now the other leg is bent … the jeans are free, settling slowly over the previously discarded items on the stool … and now the steady click-clack of heels as she walks back round to the far side of the island.

The island might not exist for all he cares, the image seared in his brain as she sauntered back round behind it.

A lifetime ago she'd said "Oh, so many layers to the Beckett onion, however will you peel them all?" … not even in his wildest dreams had he imagined anything like this!


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter 5 – Figs and Honey_**

He gives a fig, he does, really. In fact right now he's thinking of ordering by the case … hell by the truckload if necessary!

He'd spotted them by the till in the little fruit store at the end of their street, the first figs of the year. Just a few baskets, each holding about a dozen bright green figs. He'd bought one, along with the fresh cheese and some shallots he wanted for dinner tonight. He'd got back to the loft, the early June sun shining through the windows and bathing the place in a warm, honey-coloured glow.

He'd placed the contents of the carrier bag out on the kitchen counter before heading to the bedroom to change into something cooler, then he'd made his way back to the kitchen and started frowning as soon as he looked at the counter. The cheese, the shallots and his wallet were on the marble top … the figs were missing.

He looked around, the place was empty, the couch unoccupied, which in itself was unusual, study and bedroom were empty, he knew, he'd just come from there. With a frown he headed up the stairs, his steps light, bare feet quiet on the warm wooden floor.

The door's ajar when he reaches it, a golden wedge of light reaching out into the hall. He pushes the door open as quietly and gently as he can and stops. She's in the rocking chair by the window, a golden halo around her hair as the sun catches it, casting shadows on the soft skin of her face.

Her bare feet are up on the little wooden trunk below the window, their little girl lying on her back along her thighs, tiny feet presses to her mother's belly, one fisted hand waving in the air, the other in her mouth, little bubbles blowing out around it.

The long slender fingers dip into the open basket, pull out another fruit and she bends forward, whispering something to her daughter. Then she's taking a succulent bite from it, leaving behind a bright red half which her daughter tries to reach.

"_Uh-uh, not yet baby, only I get to tease your Dad with fruit_"


End file.
